


White Girls Can't Jump

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Character Study, Coming of Age, Community: hc_bingo, Community: ladiesbingo, Culture Shock, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Human Vriska, Humanstuck, Lesbian Character of Color, Lesbian Sex, Racism, Strap-Ons, Vriska is a Bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8494087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: Everyone talks about being white like it's such a position of privilege, but what do they know? You're the one who knows what it's really like. You can't twerk, you can't sing, and you have two left feet. You deserve a little sympathy!





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the ladies bingo prompt "character study" and the hurt/comfort bingo prompt "culture shock."

**0\. Ghost in the time machine**

Who is that girl? You don’t know her, but she’s you. The little bitch jammed into your yearbook slot looks like you, smiles like you, and writes like you, but she’s unrelentingly not you. She’s who you used to be. Depending on how you look at it, nothing is linear and who you used to be is the same as who you are, so you’ll always be her. You were voted most likely to succeed. When is that going to kick in?

If you could walk up to yourself back then you’d say, listen punk: you’re gonna realize that your negligent childhood left you with a dismal understanding of healthy power dynamics, which will lead you to damage many relationships of your own. You’re going to blind your best friend, and you’re going to try and use intercourse as validation. You’re going to try to shoulder the world, and you’re going to end up with a prosthetic arm when it breaks you. 

Do yourself a favor now: get over it.

**1\. When there’s nothing else left to burn, you have to light yourself on fire.**

You meet Meenah in the middle of a block party the summer after sophomore year. The air is thick with cooked meat and gunpowder. When you introduce yourself she says you’re pretty cute, for a white girl. Her braids fall down her back and sweep just a few inches above the floor when she approaches. Her hips bump yours and her cheeks light up like burning charcoal while someone lets off a Roman candle behind her head. Below a wide, flat nose, her full lips are twisted into a wicked smile.

“I think we should breakup,” she tells you in her kitchen two weeks later. 

She cracks open an entire crab with glittering gold nails. The last time you saw one whole you were on the beach in Cabo and Meenah was weaving your hair in tight little box braids against your skull. She’s wearing the same fuschia bikini, but for an unlocked fire hydrant this time. You can still feel the sand and sunburn on your skin. Kissing her tastes like lipstick and soul food; you’ll starve without it. She tells you all the reasons it won’t work, but one sticks out the most.

“Oh, and because you’re racist,” she says unflinchingly.

The words come rushing out of your mouth before you finish processing. “But,” you start. If only you stopped there. “My girlfriend is black,” you say slowly, where it hangs in the air like a dead weight. Like you aren’t talking to her, like she isn’t standing right in front of you, with the bright yellow sun reflecting off her smooth black ass. 

Meenah makes a face like she’d be disappointed, except she already lowered the bar by giving you attention in the first place. You can’t stop thinking about the time she cheered you on while a six foot tall caribbean man tattooed an anchor onto your arm. It feels stupid, now.

Meenah shakes her head. “Past tense,” she corrects. “You had a black girlfriend. Now, you got nothing.” 

You’re having flashbacks to the night Nicki Minaj asked Miley Cyrus what’s good. The time you’ve spent with Meenah flashes before your eyes, and every iteration of your hypothetical future crumbles. You tongue your lip ring in a transparent effort not to cry. When did you become such a loser? You’re making yourself sick.

Yeah, there have always been a lot of irons in the fire, but none of them have ever branded you quite like this.

**2\. You better check yourself, before you wreck yourself.**

“Okay fishbelly,” Meenah says casually. “Step. Show me what you got.”

Gamzee is blasting remixes of songs you’ve never heard. Throwbacks to a time when you were just a kid and most of the black people you knew were performers on MTV. You’re trying to come off casual but you actually spent all morning agonizing over the placement of your perfectly tousled hair. The sound of your adidas on the pavement echoes down the entire block. Meenah winks when you finally catch her gaze, and the overwhelming feeling of alienation is almost worth it. 

“You playin’ Serket?” Meenah asks, except it actually feels like the entire block is wondering. 

“Of course I am.”

You haven’t touched a jump rope since you were seven, when the rope was soft and the handles were plastic. Double dutch has always been an enigma, from the courtyard chants to the twelve foot white cord. You take the reins across from Meenah’s sister anyway. She’s wider and shorter with hair that fans out above her shoulders in unrestrained curls.

Feferi glares at you. “She can’t turn,” she announces, before you even start. 

For someone with such round eyes she’s surprisingly savage. Meenah flat out laughs. She takes the rope from your hands and you stand back to watch it swivel and flick just above the asphalt. 

“Jump in,” Meenah tells you. 

Your eyes widen at the realization, the expectation. For the first time, you feel distinctly other. Everyone turns to you and the girl on the other end sucks her teeth. You take a deep breath, try to look relaxed, and count to eight. Meenah shoves you from behind before you hit seven. 

Worst than the first fall (white girl is trippin’) is your failed second attempt; the wire flies through the air and snaps across your face like a whip. Feferi bites her lip but doesn’t bother to hold back her laughter. Gamzee makes a noise the rest of the crowd echoes. A strip of flesh across your cheek lights up like fire. You turn away before your eyes begin to water. 

“White girls can’t jump,” Feferi supplies unhelpfully. She eyeballs you and smiles hard. “And they always turn flicked-it.”

There is no silence to signify your defeat. Everyone returns to conversation about movies you’ve never heard of. You feel like maybe there was a joke in there somewhere, between sideways glances and spit sunflower seeds. Gamzee shrugs when you try to make eye contact. 

It’s like you aren’t even relevant.

**3\. Lying Is The Most Fun a Girl Can Have (Without Taking Off Her Clothes)**

You’re shocked to find yourself on the other end of racism, reverse-racism. Some part of you feels like you should have seen this coming. People of color, Terezi explains, can’t be racist because they do not systematically benefit from racism. What a load of malarky! What about affirmative action, what about BET, what about The Boondocks?

“What was I supposed to do, take notes on how to skip rope?”

The two of you are crammed into Terezi’s bedroom, which looks exactly like a blind girl decorated it. There are never any working lights, but her computer screen illuminates half the room in an eerie blue glow. There are a lot of books. Presumably about laws. She’s always been some kind of nerd for justice. 

Terezi waves her cane at you when she talks. “So you’re upset because you couldn’t do it?” 

She’s going to be the best blind lawyer ever one day, but until then she’s just going to be your shitty friend slash sister. You aren’t really related by blood, but you’ve been telling the lie for so long you’ve started believing it yourself. 

“Of course I couldn’t do it!” you snap. “It was a setup!” Terezi makes a face like she isn’t even pretending to believe you. You roll your eyes and pout even though she can’t see it. “Have you considered that I might be the real victim here?”

“You dropped the n-word in the middle of her family reunion.”

That is a dramatic oversimplification of what actually occurred. “It was part of a song,” you explain for the upteenth time. “And I was trying to show a little cultural sensitivity!” I.e. There was a ton of alcohol, and you lost total control of yourself. 

“Great job.”

“What’s their beef with white people anyway?” You throw your hands up in the air. 

“We accused them of using weed to steal our women, made it illegal, and then put them all in jail for it.”

“There was a blunt at the party,” you admit. Terezi frowns. “I’m just saying. Gamzee brought it. And I still don’t get what the big deal is, it’s just a word!”

“That’s because you’re white, Mayonnaise queen! And it’s a slur we used to call black people when they were enslaved!” Terezi shouts, exasperated.

You cross your arms. “Mayonnaise queen?” You didn’t come here for a history lesson. “And they’re still going on about that? We can’t catch a break!” The ceiling fan in Terezi’s room rattles. “Can’t they see that we’re trying to put all that behind us and make amends with everyone?”

Her lip curls. “Don’t lump me in with you!”

“Whatever happened to sticks and stones--”

She doesn’t even let you finish speaking. “We all developed lasting psychological damage! Look at what happened to Tavros.”

“Stop pretending we’re so different!” The anger coursing through your veins forces you into a stand. “There ain’t no changing your ways for good, and one day you’re going to flail that little cane of yours and not find nothing to bump into, and fall face first into the shit again. And you’re going to do something terrible to somebody and wish you could take it back, but you can’t! And you’ll work hard to win back their trust, and you’ll try and try and try, and you’ll see how hard it is!”

Your chest is heaving, but you’ve stopped trying to catch your breath. Terezi is quiet for a long time before she says. “I’m blind, not deaf.”

The door frame shakes when you slam it shut, and your hands tremble the whole way home. With friends like this, who needs enemies?

**4\. Have a vision. Be demanding.**

Tavros disagrees, albeit reluctantly. He’s supposed to do everything you say, so he’s extremely careful about disagreeing with you. At least, usually. This is proof treason has infected even the lowest ranks. It’s not just paranoia if everyone really hates you.

“You are kind of, I mean, sometimes you do say things that are kind of problematic.”

“How can I be responsible for something that happened hundreds of years before I was even born? Am I really expected to believe that load of bullshit?”

His room looks like the inside of a dollhouse. You wonder if his feet hang off the edge of his bed, the frame is in the shape of a car. There’s a model airplane hanging from the ceiling, a replica of something from Star Wars. He’s sorting through Pokemon cards on the trunk of his car-bed while he talks.

“You can believe whatever you like, because believing, as always, is half the battle, when it comes to making things marginally less fake.”

You whirl around to face him and he flinches. It’s like he’s picking at the hole Terezi tore inside you. “Are you calling me a liar?” 

“Well, I'm definitely not calling you, a truther.” Tavros averts his gaze while you try to ease up. “Maybe it was just, like, a bit of bad luck.”

“Bad luck?” you screech. No one ever takes your side. “She let go of the rope on purpose.” 

“Did you, maybe, talk to Meenah about it?”

Tavros acts like this is Sesame Street and the solution to everything is talking about your feelings. Newsflash: this is the real world and nobody gives a crap!

“I’m trying to get her to fuck me. I can’t snitch on her sister!”

He tilts his head to inspect a holographic Pikachu. “Why do you want, to do it so bad, anyway?”

“Because she’s extra hot Tavros, shut the fuck up.” His room is as stuffy as his attitude. 

“Is that, like, the only reason? Or do you also, maybe, like the way she sneezes, and, the way she parts her hair?”

“Stop being disgusting.” This is exactly why you and Tavros could never work. “Any real man would know what I’m talking about.” You make a v with your fingers and wiggle your tongue through it. “Sex is like a fun game for super extra handicapped retarded people.”

“I’m not stupid,” he says, sweat beading on his forehead. “I know about sex.”

The thought incenses you. Not because you like Tavros, but because you can’t imagine anyone who would willingly ride his limp dick. “Who have you had sex with?”

“None,” he swallows, “None of your business, actually.”

“You’re such a liar, Tavros. Everyone at school knows you’re a virgin. Why lie to me about it?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, Vriska, and, in fact, I shouldn’t even be talking to you--”

“Then prove it.” You raise an eyebrow and elbows him in the ribs.

“What?” His eyes widen comically, but the fear on his face just hurts your feelings. 

You narrow your eyes. “Prove to me you aren’t a virgin.” 

He grips the headboard for balance when you move in close. “Scared you can’t feel anything below the waist?”

“It’s not my fault you were born a bitch, Vriska,” Tavros stutters, trying to reach for his wheelchair from the edge of mattress. “Normal people want their relationship to be a, a, safe space, where people aren’t like, huge jerks all the time.”

**5\. Extra hot sauce, hold the salt.**

  
\-- arachnidsGrip began pestering ectoBiologist \--  


AG: John, quick question  
EB: hi vriska!  
AG: Do you think I’m racist?  
EB: uh.  
AG: Like what would you think if you found out I said…  
AG: the n-word  
EB: i don’t know.  
EB: it depends, i guess…  
EB: was it in a song?  
AG: Yes!  
EB: well if saying it in a song is racist, then that would make all the white people i know racist.  
AG: Exaaaaaaactly!  
AG: It doesn’t count if it’s in a song  
EB: i think that’s right.  
AG: Well it turns out we’re totally wrong!  
EG: what?  
AG: I talked to a bunch of black people and it makes you racist even if you say it in a song!  
EB: are you sure?  
AG: Unfortun8ly  
EB: bluh.  
AG: This 8lows  
AG: This is infringing on our rights!  
EB: our rights,  
EB: to saying the n-word?  
AG: To saying whatever we want!  
EB: i guess it’s not such a big deal  
EB: i don’t actually know that many songs with the n-word  
EB: the awkward part is going to be apologizing to dave  
AG: You’re going to apolo8ize?!  
EB: don’t you think i should?  
EB: dave is my best friend, and what if he’s been feeling weird about this  
AG: Then may8e he should have said something!  
EB: did you apologize?  
AG: To who?  
EB: whoever you said the n-word to  
EB: (in a song)  
AG: Of course not!  
EB: how did that work out?  
AG: You think you’re so smart.  
AG: And you’re S8CH a GOOD GUY.

  
\-- arachnidsGrip is now an idle chum --  


**6\. Get out of your own way**

The little hoop in Meenah’s eyebrow glitters under the glow from the stovetop when she leans closer. Stupidly, you think she’s about to kiss you. She pierces the shell of your ear instead, with nothing but the flame from a burner and a sharp pin. The needle sinks into your skin and sticks before Meenah can jam it through the other side of the cartilage. It hurts like a bitch, and you scream loud enough that she covers your mouth with her free hand.

“If you don’t shut up,” Meenah whispers harshly in the empty kitchen. “We’re gonna get caught.” 

You’re trying to be a good sport about it but crying always makes you congested. Your makeup probably looks like shit. Meenah takes you in her arms and lets you bleed all over her shirt. The tattoo on your arm is still healing and there’s sunburn across your back. You hurt all over.

When you finally pull away, you stare at the checkered tiles on the floor. It’s rare that the conversation between the two of you culminates in anything more than competition. “What’s your biggest fear?” 

“Me? Uh--” Meenah flounders for a moment, but never actually manages to look vulnerable. “Going broke, I guess.”

You’ve never really thought about money that way. You wince as she swabs your skin with alcohol. “Being poor is for losers,” you confirm.

Meenah nods, and positions the needlepoint at your other ear. “Word.”

**7\. Bye, Felicia**

You fall beside her on the bed like the moment is perfectly orchestrated, but like everything she’s shared with you, the sex is impromptu. Her manicured nails look like they could shred you to bits but she opens you up softly, until you’re sliding around on her fingers and begging for more. When her lips find yours, she slips her tongue between your teeth and teases the roof of your mouth.

“One sec,” she says, before pulling away to rifle through the bedside drawer. 

You stare at the twilight filtering through the open window and turn back to find Meenah brandishing her weapon of mass destruction. She tightens the harness until the straps dig into her ass and the shiny black dildo stands at attention below the dip of her navel. She shifts her weight and licks her lips. The springs in the mattress creak when she bends her knees.

“You ready?” she asks. She’s grinning ear to ear, but you can’t tell if she’s serious. She handles the dick between her legs like she was born with it. “You been around the block, right?”

Everything is happening really fast, but you’re totally prepared. You choose your words wisely. “Not with you.” 

She moves like a predator, eyes like she could eat you, and slides the silicone cock between your thighs. “It’s better than the real thing,” she promises.

You press your lips together. “What about…?”

She giggles against your neck. “What?” Her voice is husky between bouts of laughter. “You want me put a condom on it?” She spreads you open and nudges the tip inside. “Scared I’m a knock you up with my big black dick?”

The laughter eases the tension, like sandpaper on an unfinished edge. She swallows you whole and presses you into the mattress like she’s starving, headboard knocking the wall with every bump of her hips. She rolls your nipples between her fingers without pause, yanking until you scream into her shoulder. She hushes you and brings a hand to your face. 

“Suck it, Serket.” 

The order sends a thrill through you. You want to talk, want to describe the feeling of Meenah inside you, but she keeps shoving fingers into your mouth, first two, then three at a time. You sink back to match every thrust forward. You’ve never cum riding cock before, but none of them ever vibrated and curved two inches toward the front of your cunt. 

When your thighs stop trembling Meenah unsticks the velcro around her waist and gestures to her uncovered pussy. “Show me what you can do with that tongue besides talk shit.”

Even though it’s the best orgasm you’ve ever had, you feel hustled, somehow.

**8\. I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear better shoes.**

You don’t spend much time in that part of the city anymore, not because you don’t belong, but because your parents sold the house when you moved across town for college. Now they live in an overpriced condo with a doorman that helps with the groceries, and you live in a dorm room the size of a closet with a roommate you’re pretty sure is hocking your stuff.

Meenah is still the biggest bombshell in the beauty salon. You know you don’t belong there and you can’t think of a single excuse for even going in, but you’re doing it anyway, because you deserve closure and you can’t control yourself. 

You storm up to her and realize you haven’t prepared anything to say. “I don’t need your sympathy,” you huff. Hello, your name is Vriska Serket, and you’re addicted to causing a scene. “And more importantly, I don’t want it.”

“Good. I wasn’t offerin’ any.” Her body language is so open, so casual that you want to tear out your hair.

“I only ever wanted to do the right thing no matter how it made people judge me, and I don’t need a safe space to do that.” The more you talk the faster the words begin falling into place. “You don’t have to be nice to make yourself relevant. And you don’t have to be a good person to be a hero. So if that makes me a racist, for singing along to a song with everyone else, then--”

“Girl,” Meenah says with a sigh. She yawns just to show how much of a bore that whole tangent was for everybody involved. “That wasn’t even the main thing.” 

The main thing? Of course that was the main thing. Of course you’re the main thing! You’ve gone on your personal journey, you’ve grown as a person, and now you’re better for it. You’re not just a stupid white bitch anymore! Doesn’t that mean anything? It’s not like you’re expecting actual applause, but some kind of validation would be nice. 

Meenah pulls you aside and shoves you out of the building before you can respond, so the two of you are forced to have an extremely personal conversation next to a homeless guy and a woman with an inconsolable three year old.

She stares at the ground and you sniffle. “I get it,” you lament. “I’m a huge racist bitch.”

Meenah shakes her head and the beads in her hair knock together. “I always knew you was a bitch. The old you never gave a flip what anyone else thought.” She kicks a rock into the street and takes a deep breath. “But when I look at you now I see a person who’s vulnerable as hell. And I just don’t think--I don’t think I’m the kinda person to be trusted with those feelings.” 

You reach out to hug her and she allows it, wrapping her arms around your waist and laughing into your hair. “Been crying a lot of them white people tears over me?”

You’ve missed the smell of sweat and cocoa butter. The two of you release and separate before you’re really ready to let go. She isn’t as tall as you remember, but you’ve grown a lot since then.

“Plus,” she confesses, “the age difference got kinda weird.” She averts her eyes. “You’re the same age as my baby sister.”

You close the yearbook so you don’t give in to the urge to tear out your photograph. Meenah isn’t in it, but Tavros and Terezi both signed their names in the back. You’re supposed to feel touched, but you just feel trapped. Who is this bigger, better version of yourself, anyway?

Full disclosure: The first time you meet Meenah changes a little every time you replay it in your head. The outlines get fuzzier, and you can’t remember which color lipstick she was wearing, but the message remains the same. You don’t just wanna fuck her. You want her to love it.


End file.
